


Set to Zoom

by andwhatyousaid



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Tape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 12:22:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/887236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andwhatyousaid/pseuds/andwhatyousaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Actor Harry Styles/Sports Icon Liam Payne AU: Harry would rather like to see what Liam looks like on film for a change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Set to Zoom

**Author's Note:**

> Set in an [extremely briefly sketched-out AU](http://andwhatyousaid.tumblr.com/post/55765234790/au-actor-harry-styles-sports-icon-liam-payne-i) where Harry’s an actor and Liam’s on a nice professional footie team. They make a sex tape. Good luck. Thank you to [Becca](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fallfreely) for all of the hand-holding a girl could ever dream of & for giving it a lovely read through, though I'm not sure she should really want to be associated with this. Disclaimer: Entirely fiction. Please don’t show this to the real people who may or may not be portrayed here.

They’re in Harry’s bedroom, and Harry’s already set the lighting — opened his curtains to let the smattering of afternoon sun stream in distilled through his window to fan across the dark wood of his headboard and the white bed sheets, his duvet thrown onto the floor of his walk-in closet hours ago. He’s tested the angle himself, a couple days prior, when he’d first gotten the idea. He’d been away from Liam for almost a complete fortnight — their schedules refusing to sync up, repelling despite their best attempts, and Harry’d been sat through an interview that felt like it’d stretched the seams of time and space, holding out endlessly, the same prepackaged questions rolling out one after another about his upcoming film and the director he worked with and his co-stars.

Harry had returned to his flat after press, switching on his telly in time to catch the end of Liam’s match, watching the camera zoom in on Liam like a magnet from across the pitch as Harry settled into his massive couch in his sweats with a cold beer. He’d sworn the camera had paused, for the briefest moment, right in on Liam’s face, his creasing eyebrows, his split open mouth as he yelled out to a teammate, backpedaling into a position of defence, his arms and legs tensed and poised, waiting. Harry’d just wondered, is all, during the post-game talk with Liam standing around in his sweaty jersey clinging at his chest, his flushed grinning face, his teeth flashing from the force of it, his warm voice echoing delight from the win, his head ducking from a teammate’s hand coming up to ruffle his hair in a show of affection — Harry’d only wondered if Liam had ever seen himself played back like that, if he’d ever really got it.

“It’ll be  _great_ ,” Harry says. He tries to emit as much assurance into his voice as he feels in the way his pulse is still steady, his breathing kept rhythmic and easy. It’s not like he isn’t excited, of course, can’t help the deep breath he’d had to take and the instant pressure at the zip of his jeans just from setting up the tripod he’d borrowed from Zayn at the foot of his bed. The video camera itself is lost somewhere between his sheets, behind Liam’s back — behind Liam’s head and face where his teeth keep biting into his bottom lip, twisting, his gaze shifting from Harry’s face to the tripod to the floor, sliding all over the place.

Harry clears his throat, looking away from Liam’s mouth and down to his own bare feet and toes curling in the carpet, the cuffs of his jeans at his ankles that seem uneven, one side slipping lower than the other. “Really great,” he says, glancing back up. “Promise.”

He finds that Liam’s face has smoothed out a little, a grin peeking at the corners of Liam’s lips, turning them upwards, his forehead and eyebrows relaxing, and Harry has a swoop of relief that he’d thought to at least take Liam out to breakfast first after picking him up from LAX in the early dawn — ducking as low as he’d dared behind his Range Rover’s tinted windows, his hands thrumming with excess anticipation as he’d watched Liam open the passenger car door with his duffel slung over his shoulder, fighting the urge to leap across the console and grab Liam’s face with both of his hands the whole drive home.

“I’m gonna hold you to that, Styles,” Liam says as he steps forward, his feet shifting against the carpet, rustling.

Before Harry can crack a smile back and tell Liam that he hopes he will, he’s counting on it — before Liam can reach him, Liam says, his face looking momentarily serious, his eyebrows creasing up again briefly, “Right, and we’ll delete it, after we watch it. Straight away?”

He’s still inching nearer, standing so close that Harry can smell his aftershave, feel the hint of heat from his body already. Harry’s fingers curl into his palms from the anticipation — Liam’s hips, his waist are so near that Harry wouldn’t even have to extend his arm to pull him in, the lines of his abs visible under his thin cotton t-shirt. Harry grasps the waistband of Liam’s trackies with both of his hands, unable to stand it, and tugs Liam forward until he’s stumbling into Harry’s chest, his face opening up with his startled laugh, his eyebrows rising, his mouth falling apart around his white teeth.

“Yes,” Harry says, emphatic, though it’s difficult to get the words out over his own laugh rising up. “I _promise_.”

“Alright, alright,” Liam says, his mouth working around taming a smile. He looks up at Harry through his eyelashes that appear lengthened and dark from the angle. His hands smooth down the slope of Harry’s shoulders, dip down to his back, firm and solid, the outline of each of his fingers distinct even through the material of Harry’s vest.

Liam wets his mouth, a slow drag of his tongue, and Harry feels Liam’s nails scratch a little at his back while Liam says, “That’s already two promises you’ve made, no need to go around agreeing to things you can’t deliver on just to get me into bed, I give.”

Then he tilts his face up, and Harry’s bringing his hands up to cup Liam’s jaw before he thinks of it, tilting his own face down to find Liam’s warm mouth for a kiss.

Liam only pulls back to say, “Where’d you leave it?” His voice has already dropped octaves, his mouth already blooming with color, and Harry resists reaching down to adjust himself and pop a button free to relieve some ounce of pressure that feels increasingly unbearable.

Instead, he says, “Not to worry,” murmuring as he leans closer for another kiss, one he can open his mouth to.

They kiss until Harry can’t stop his hands from climbing up the back of Liam’s t-shirt, sliding right up against his skin that’s growing warmer and warmer by the second, sweat beginning to contract in his pores, Liam’s shirt starting to weigh heavy against the backs of Harry’s knuckles, his wrists where his bones are turning, tendons tightening from trying to grasp at Liam’s shoulders — until Liam’s got both of his hands gripping Harry’s jaw, his fingers winding up in Harry’s hair, Liam's jaw opened wide enough to crack, like he’s trying to consume Harry whole.

Harry only remembers about the camera when Liam groans into him, the sound vibrating between their broad chests where they’re pressed into one another, Harry’s hands working at tugging Liam’s shirt up — out of the way, off, and Liam says against Harry’s mouth, brushing the words there like he means to be tender, “Jesus, Harry, I want you to fuck my mouth.”

Harry’s chest tightens, his ribs shuttering with a sharp inhale, his hands clenching and unclenching in the material of Liam’s shirt where he’s managed to screw it up all the way to Liam’s armpits. “Fuck,” he says, stringing it out like a moan.

Liam responds insistently — his hips pushing up into Harry’s until they’re against each other, his leg slotting right between Harry’s thighs. Harry can feel him, hot and hard, unmistakable and close to Harry’s own cock thickening up further in his jeans. He pulls away from Liam’s mouth, the push of his tongue slick against his teeth, and grasps Liam around his ribs to still him, saying, “Wait,” though his voice heaves like he doesn’t have enough breath.

He tries again, “Hang on,” he says, and squeezes his eyes shut in an effort to distract himself from Liam’s hands sliding down his neck to his chest between them, palming his stomach, his fingers reaching to thumb at Harry’s nipples through his vest.

Liam’s only moved away from Harry’s mouth to kiss his cheek, underneath his ear, his jaw, no less distracting, and Liam lingers there as he says, “What,” his voice deep and baiting, low. “You don’t want to fuck me?”

Harry feels Liam’s tongue press against his pulse in his throat, and then his teeth clench into a bite like he can't help himself, like it isn't enough. It makes Harry’s hands spasm against Liam’s ribs, pulling at him suddenly and so hard that it’s got to hurt, his nails digging in; Liam’s thumbs are only more persistent at Harry’s nipples and chest in response though — pressing back hard, scrunching the material of Harry’s vest up as he lets loose a noise like a moan.

Harry clears his throat, attempting to collect himself, “Babe, that’s not —”

But Liam’s releasing the skin at Harry’s neck to run his mouth up to Harry’s jaw again, his voice rattling right into Harry’s ear, “No? Don’t want your cock down my throat?” He hums a little, considering, disappointed almost, sucking at the space underneath where Harry’s curls start, where his neck meets the edge of his jaw, his nose tucked into Harry’s hair and skin.

Harry tries not to let his eyes roll back and his hips shove forward into Liam’s thighs, but it’s impossible when Liam says into his ear again, more breathless than before, creaking between his vowels, “You want me to fuck you instead, hmm?”

Liam slides his hands seamlessly from Harry’s chest around his waist down to his arse, tucking into his back pockets and squeezing. A noise rasps out of Harry’s throat before he can stop it, and Liam laughs, pleased, a sound deep from his chest that it seems to simmer, hissing on its way out.

“Yeah,” Liam says, his hands flexing against Harry’s arse, scraping at the denim. “I’ve got you,” he says, angling his head to press the words to Harry’s mouth, opening his own mouth up for a kiss.

He fucks his tongue into Harry’s mouth, unforgiving, his chest hitching with a moan. He kisses Harry again and again, Harry’s own hands caught helpless at Liam’s waist, spanning all the way to his hips, his mouth falling open as he groans into Liam.

When Liam pulls back he says, “Don’t worry, I’ll give you my cock,” and Harry’s so distracted by the way Liam’s mouth is completely flushed, red and swelling, watching it shape around his voice, pursing, that Harry forgets what he’d been working so hard to remember, why they’d have to stop at all, and it makes too much sense to tug up at the hem of Liam’s shirt, finally get it all the way off.  

Liam surges up to kiss Harry again as soon as his shirt's tossed away — landing with a quiet smack against the wall by the window adjacent to Harry's bed. And Harry collapses into him, rutting his hips forward for friction, moaning when he finds it against Liam’s hard prick tenting his trackies obscenely. Liam fists his hand in Harry's hair, pulling like he means it, his bare bicep flexing, and Harry gives, opening his mouth into their kiss until his jaw aches, unwilling to separate even at the scratch of Liam’s stubble, even when his lungs begin to heat like they’re burning right up under his sternum, his nose stinging from trying to breathe so deeply. Liam’s skin is incredibly warm underneath his hands, the muscles in his stomach taut, his shoulder-blades broken apart from his hands knotting in Harry’s hair, his hands slipping beneath Harry’s vest to scrape against his lower back like he can’t get a grip. Harry grinds his hips into Liam’s in a slow circle, and Liam makes a noise right into Harry’s mouth that Harry tries to catch, tries to reel in like he can taste it with his tongue.

He only lets go of Liam to reach behind his own head and help Liam get his vest off, but they can’t seem to pull apart long enough make it happen and Harry’s suspended with his arms bent, his vest fisted in both of his hands behind his head, Liam’s hands pushing the material up so that it’s right below Harry’s chin, holding onto the sides of Harry’s face at the same time, his fingers tangled. The both of them pull at Harry’s vest so viciously that Harry feels like he’s choking, his lungs locking up, seizing beneath his ribs, though Liam won’t let up — his fingers firm at Harry’s chin, his jaw and cheek, his mouth warm and slick, sound after sound releasing right into Harry, his chest and stomach heated where they're flush against Harry's, his hips rolling.

Harry’s missed him more than he thought he would, so it takes until his vision starts to feel fuzzy — spinning, white sparks popping at the corners — for him to pull away, his chest feeling like it can’t expand any wider, it’s caving in. He presses his hot cheek to Liam’s, sucking in air, his arms feeling tense and shaky behind his head.

Liam’s breathing just as quickly, his chest drumming against Harry’s at a pace almost as accelerated as Harry’s pulse knocking around in his skull, echoing in his ears. Liam kisses the side of his face, and then Liam’s hands are gently tugging at Harry’s vest, freeing it from his numbed hands, trying to get it to slide over his head without jostling him too much.

He has to pull his head away from Liam’s face and shoulder to get it all the way off, but his lungs have calmed enough by the time it hits the floor for him to lean in for Liam’s mouth again, though Harry’s own mouth feels hot and raw, his throat dry, his jaw aching. Liam doesn’t look like he’s much better off — his mouth has grown so red and swollen that Harry can’t stand the sight of it alone.

Liam takes advantage of Harry’s naked stomach and chest like he hadn’t had his hands beneath Harry’s vest before, like he hadn’t been sliding his thumbs at the bones of his hips, rubbing his palms at Harry’s stomach where his moth tattoo rests, the small of his back that’s becoming warm and sweaty. Liam doesn’t hesitate to step into Harry until they’re pressed against each other once more either, and Harry pulls him closer by his arms, feeling Liam’s biceps expanding, firm and flexed, in his grip. He tightens his hands like he’s trying to get an imprint, memorize the feel, and tries not to groan from it, from Liam’s mouth open against his throat when Harry says, “Come on,” pushing a little, using his leverage to get Liam to walk towards the bed.

They shuffle backwards, and though they aren’t very far, it takes ages. Liam makes it difficult with the way he refuses to let go of Harry’s waist, tracing the trail of hair leading into Harry’s jeans, thumbing at the button, his mouth pressing into Harry’s, urgent like he can’t bear to be away from it. Harry stumbles more than once, but Liam catches him easily, shifting his grasp around Harry’s waist so that Harry never really trips and falls — only leans in more fully to Liam’s body and mouth, falling into him instead, and it makes Harry groan, helpless and caught.

When they reach the bed, Liam switches them around by Harry’s shoulders and then shoves Harry down. Harry flops onto the bed on his back, his breath swooshing out of his chest, his necklaces smacking into his collarbones, his knees hanging over the end of the bed, his feet on the floor. He looks up at Liam, who’s grinning and reaching to spread Harry’s knees apart, fitting in-between them.

Harry pulls at Liam’s shoulders, urging him down and closer, and Liam goes willingly, his knees bumping into the bed between Harry’s, his back arching as he brackets his hands around Harry’s shoulders, lean nearer to give him a kiss.

It doesn’t last long before Liam’s bending back up a bit, still arched low enough for another kiss, but with enough space between them for his hands to grasp at Harry’s sides, right above his jeans and push up like he’s trying to lift Harry.

Liam pulls away from their kiss to say, “Come on, budge up,” and Harry grins at him while he complies, propping himself up with his hands to scramble further up on the bed, watching Liam’s own red swollen mouth grin back at him, his bare flushed chest, his trackies lower on his hips than they’d been before, than Harry had remembered — so low that they’re stretching out right over the huge bulge of Liam’s stiff cock and Harry can clearly see that Liam isn’t wearing any pants underneath, it’s all a wash of lean soft tanned skin.

It startles Harry when he figures he’s far enough back on the bed and starts to let his weight go only to knock his hand into something hard and solid, like plastic or glass, his knuckles skimming over the smooth surface. He frowns, his face twisting with confusion at the contact and cranes his head over his shoulder to cheek. He’s surprised to see the camera, the extended attached lens underneath a corner of the sheets, and he’s quick to reach for Liam’s hand that’s sliding down flat against Harry’s stomach, heated and firm, headed to his zipper.

Harry says, “Hey — hang on, Liam,” making a noise in his throat and turning his head around to face Liam again when Liam does no such thing, rubbing his palm up the length of Harry’s cock in his jeans instead, looking down at Harry’s naked torso and wetting his mouth.

Harry makes another grab for Liam’s wrist, sucking in a breath and trying to sound serious, “We forgot about — the thing, Liam.”

When Liam doesn’t stop, humming along like he’s listening but bending to mouth across the tattooed swallows on Harry’s chest, his stubble scraping Harry’s skin, his hair tickling underneath Harry’s chin, his voice rumbling against him, Harry says more urgently, “The _thing_ , Liam, the thing, the whole point of — would you give it a rest,” but he’s worried that his hips rocking up into Liam’s open palm when he finally undoes the first button of Harry’s jeans might send the wrong message.

Liam’s biting over the vee at Harry’s hip bones as he hums again in affirmation, and Harry feels it vibrate across his body, but it’s obvious Liam hasn’t heard at all because the stupid bloody moron only starts to slide Harry’s zipper down, saying low and uneven into Harry’s belly-button, “Don’t worry, babe.”

He kisses down the trail of hair that leads into Harry’s trousers and pants, tugging the zip with more force so that it jars Harry’s hips forwards, towards him. “Just want to taste you.”

He props himself up on his elbows, watching Liam’s mouth trace along the waistband to his briefs, and says, “Fuck,” the word sliding out of his throat. He reaches blindly for the camera behind him with one hand, groping to get ahold of the side of it in a firm grip and tug it forward.

Liam glances up at him, disturbed by the movement and he looks caught — his mouth slack and open, his eyes so dark they look black, his hair a mess, especially where it’s longer on top, his part ruined — his fingers folded into the band of Harry’s jeans, his arms flexed and poised like he’d been about to pull them down in one swift motion. He grins a little when he sees Harry struggling to balance his hold on the camera, trying to brace himself still with one arm, reaching across his middle to fiddle with the buttons distractedly.

“Oh, yeah,” Liam says, sounding pleased. “Forgot about that.”

Harry levels him with a look, knocks his knee into Liam’s shoulder, trying not to smile, trying to keep a grip on the disappointed set of his mouth, his frowning furrowed eyebrows, but he can’t contain it when Liam retaliates by grabbing his ankle loosely and biting it, making Harry kick his leg again, a laugh erupting from his chest. He squirms free, though Liam only lets Harry go, it seems, to grab him by the hips again, to get a much more sure grip on his trousers than he’d had on his ankle, and tug them down hard, standing up to take them off.

“Have you got that sorted yet?” Liam says as he struggles to free Harry’s jeans from his calves. He gives a final pull and stumbles back a little, holding the jeans up in victory before tossing them carelessly over his shoulder to land wherever their shirts must’ve wound up, and Harry offers him a smile, dimpling at him, taking a moment to smooth his hair back from his forehead.

“I’m working on it,” he says, finally looking away from Liam’s face and down to the camera again.

Liam makes an unconvinced noise and dips back down to bite at the waistband of Harry’s pants, pulling the material away with his teeth, kneeling almost completely on the mattress between Harry’s long spread legs, palming at the tent in his own trackies like he’s impatient.

It seems Harry finds the record button just in time, slipping his hand into the leather strap to secure the camera — like Liam couldn’t have waited any longer with the way that he glances back up at Harry through his eyelashes, at the camera that Harry’s just managed to angle down towards Liam’s head. His eyes are open and dark, his white teeth still clenched around the fabric of Harry’s pants as he drags them downwards slowly, nosing at Harry’s cock as he goes.

Harry bites his lip at the noise that comes up — sudden and sharp — especially with the way Liam looks through the flip screen, his skin seeming more tan than before, sitting in sharper contrast to Harry’s dark briefs, to Liam’s flushed mouth, his eyes, his huge hands helping slide Harry’s pants down his open thighs and down below his knees, squeezing around his shins as Harry kicks them all the way off.

On the screen, Harry’s cock springing free, slapping up against his stomach looks even larger, Liam’s lips even fuller as they trace up his shaft. His tongue strokes at the head, his hands slide back up Harry’s thighs to touch his hips and waist — and it seems even louder in the quiet of the room, between the soft humming from the camera and their breathing when Liam moans at the sensation.

“Fuck,” Harry says again.

Liam’s eyes flick up to him, holding contact before flickering over to the camera lens right as he dips to take the head of Harry’s cock into his mouth, sucking, beginning to hollow out his cheeks.

Harry groans and his grip on the camera suddenly feels slippery, like it could slide right out of his hand, the camera strap hot and clammy against him, his skin overcome with heat — and Liam’s warm hand wrapping around the base of his cock, his jaw opening up wider, his tongue rubbing along the underside of Harry’s cock does nothing to help, only makes Harry’s chest feel tight and breathless, difficult to get a grip on a full inhale, his head tilting back with a moan, his hand tipping sideways and skewing the camera angle up.

Liam’s free hand spreads Harry’s thighs further apart, pushing right at the jut of his muscles where his jeans have left a red imprint from the seam. Liam pulls off with a sloppy slick noise.

Harry struggles to quickly straighten his wrist and frame the camera properly as he watches Liam wet his already damp mouth and stroke Harry, sliding his thumb across the slit of Harry’s cock, spreading Harry’s precome and his spit down the length; it looks terribly good on the camera when Harry manages to glance over to the screen: Liam’s big hand around his bigger hard cock, Liam’s mouth more wrecked than before, his eyelids lowered, his arm flexing so that his bicep bulges, Harry’s own stomach quivering, his moth and hip tattoos in plain sight.

“Need a hand?” Liam says, his mouth cracking around a grin, jerking his chin up towards the camera, and Harry huffs a laugh back at him, more breathless than anything, tightening his hand around the camera reflexively to keep it from feeling so slippery again.  

He clears his throat, opening his knees up further and pushing up into Liam’s hand. Harry’s voice ends up rasping all over the place, the words punching together disjointedly as he says, “I’ve got it; you’ve got bigger things to worry about.”

Liam hums, considering, and then opens his mouth up to lap at the beads of precome dripping from Harry’s cock. “I suppose,” he says, swallowing.

He bows and takes Harry into his mouth fully, working into a rhythm with his hand, bobbing his head, groaning around Harry, loud and eager even with Harry’s cock muffling the sound. Harry can’t help but echo him — Liam’s mouth feeling hot and wet, tight with suction around him, his skin feeling slicker with sweat, the camera growing overheated in his hand, the noises of it humming combined with Liam’s mouth and their breathing feeling like an overload in his ears, making white static expand and buzz in his head.

Harry thrusts up without meaning to, clenching his hand around the camera and his free one in the bed sheet, twisting it between his knuckles, clenching his jaw to keep from thrusting up again, to keep from throwing the camera aside and threading his fingers through Liam’s hair, tugging on it, cupping the back of his head, cupping his open jaw full of Harry’s cock, pressing Liam down and close, closer.

Liam makes a noise around him, his eyes opening suddenly and settling on Harry, his face flushing anew from Harry’s thrust. He pulls off again, and Harry says, “Sorry,” though he can’t quite manage to sound very apologetic, distracted by Liam jerking him fast and tight in his mouth’s absence, and Liam’s chest expanding just as quickly as Harry feels his own.

“You’ve never had to be sorry for that before,” Liam says, hoarse and breathy, his eyebrow quirking up, his lips sliding around a grin. Then he lowers his mouth again to guide Harry back in, moaning as he sinks down, opening and relaxing his throat pointedly to take Harry deeper than before.

Harry makes a noise that splits off into a gasp, hitching in his sternum. “Christ, Liam,” he says, his hand feeling like it weighs ten thousand tonnes with the camera in it, heavy even though Liam looks so good through the screen — his mouth stretched all the way around Harry like that, his throat working, his eyelashes sweeping against his cheeks, his nose close to the brush of hair at the base of Harry’s cock.

Liam tugs at Harry’s thighs and hips, tightening his hands, his nails scraping against Harry’s skin, pulling Harry in an imitation of a thrust until Harry groans and tries to keep his arm steady while he rocks his hips up with purpose, slow and deliberate, fucking into Liam’s mouth and throat over and over.

Liam’s incredibly loud around him, and Harry doesn’t know how long he’s going to last with the tight heat of Liam’s throat, with the way Liam’s eyes are watering and rolling up in his head like he’s the one having his cock sucked, his breaths coming in shorter and shorter, harsh and crude through his nose. Harry’s whole body feels so hot, drenched in sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead and neck, his open thighs shaky and wobbly, the base of his spine lit up.

He says, gasping, “Liam,” and Liam seems to understand, his eyelashes sweeping open, looking up at Harry around his cock, his pupils blown apart, his face red and sweaty, his hair curling against his forehead.

He drags his mouth up Harry, pulling away, sucking, and Harry tries not to thrust up into it this time, though it takes a lot of effort, makes him feel twice as winded, his hand and arm trembling from the exertion of holding the camera up and not falling slack. Liam doesn’t replace his hand with his mouth, but he does take a moment to suck at the head of Harry’s cock, gathering his precome into his mouth.

When he pulls off, Harry groans and says, “Let me see,” bending to sit up and touch Liam’s jaw with his hand, wanting to run his thumb across Liam’s obscenely swollen bottom lip, his damp reddened chin. He tilts the camera forward, bringing it tighter into his chest to get a better shot of Liam, focus on his face and bare heaving chest. “I want to see,” he says again.

Liam complies, looking right into the lens and Harry’s face as he opens his mouth and slides his tongue out to display Harry’s come pooled on it. Harry has to bite his lip and squeeze his eyes shut so that he doesn’t fuck his cock back down Liam’s throat at the sight.

When he opens his eyes, Liam’s closed his mouth but hasn’t swallowed, and he leans up to kiss Harry, reaching with a hot hand for the back of his neck, his mouth remarkably warm and wet, smelling and tasting like musk — feeling so good that Harry doesn’t even notice how quickly Liam presses his tongue into Harry’s mouth until he feels his own slick precome against his tongue. He moans as he swallows, the sound breaking up, his mouth falling slack.

Liam kisses him again, slow and thorough, before Harry feels Liam’s hand join his around the camera, wrapping his long fingers around Harry’s and pushing their joint hands together towards Harry’s chest so that the camera, warmed and sweaty, knocks into his skin, clinks noisily against his necklaces.

Liam bites at Harry’s bottom lip as he pulls away, saying, “Go on, set it up properly, won’t you?” His gaze scans up and then down Harry’s face like he's surveying, taking him in, his lips hinting at a grin.

Harry gets his lungs to quit burning up long enough for him to say, “Yeah, ‘course, alright,” and give Liam’s jaw a lingering kiss before he moves away to slide off the bed, onto his feet, and attach the camera to the tripod, stumbling a bit, his legs feeling loose and quivering, his cock wet and straight up against his stomach, still attempting to catch his breath.

When he’s managed to get the camera to click into place, he bends and looks through it to double check the angle, make sure he’s done a proper job. He’s confronted with the image of Liam on his back on the bed framed sideways through the lens, his head and feet flat against the sheets, his hips lifted and his hands beginning to slide his trackies down and off, his arms flexing. The sun’s scattering over the lines of his chest, the slope of his nose and chin, his crooked elbows, his raised knees, and Harry has to bite his lip to muffle a noise, suddenly feeling as though he's breathing just as heavily as he was a few moments ago when Liam had his red wet mouth around Harry’s cock.

Harry sees Liam tilt his head to the side to look over at Harry and the camera, pausing with his trackies mid-thigh, his muscles tensed and flexed, his cock still caught and bulging hugely in the fabric though the groomed thatch at the base is nearly visible, his knees spread apart wider than before, his chest collapsed with an exhale. His mouth looks swollen while he says, “See something you like?” His lips part around a grin, his teeth flashing in the sunlight, his eyebrows raising.

Harry’s unable to convince himself to step away from the camera. He only looks up from it to shoot Liam an absent grin back, distracted by glancing down from Liam’s face to his chest, his stomach, his thighs — much brighter, much more real than he’d appeared through the lens’ filter. He says, “Might if you make it worth my while. Go on, show us what you’ve got,” and then has to grip himself at the base of his cock when Liam makes a considering face, as if he’s weighing his options, before he lifts his hips from the bed again and shoves his trackies the rest of the way off, his hard cock springing up against his belly, his long tan legs coming free.

Liam straightens up after he’s tossed his trackies away, sat so that his legs hang over the side of the bed, framed directly in front of the camera and Harry. He leans backwards on one palm pressed flat to the sheets, tilts his head back at an angle almost in defiance, challenging, and Harry can see the underside of his unshaven jaw, see his eyes and eyelashes even though they’re lowered.

Liam wets his mouth slowly and Harry tightens his hand around his own cock, watching entranced as Liam slides his free hand up his neck, his long fingers spread out, touching gently at his jaw, sliding down his chest, circling his nipples, dipping down to run across his abs and then his thighs before he takes his cock, thick and hard, in hand, stroking upwards. He makes a noise at the contact, his eyelashes fluttering, his hips jerking forward into it, and then picks up the pace, his fist moving more quickly around his prick, settling back onto his palm so that he can push his hips up into it. He groans and spreads his thighs apart over the edge of the bed; the white sheets twist underneath his legs.

Harry doesn't realize how heavily he's breathing, tightening his hand unconsciously around himself, until he makes a noise and it comes out loudly, much more-so than he’d thought it would, echoing in the room sharply above the sounds of Liam’s hand slick on his cock, Liam moaning, the camera humming close to Harry’s ears.

Liam’s eyes flicker up to Harry and focus on his face. He grinds up into his fist slowly, dragging his fingers up his cock, his hips rolling, a noise scraping out of his throat, raspy and hoarse, and then he widens the spread of his thighs even more, leaning back further until he’s resting on his elbow. It gives Harry and the camera a clear view of the insides of Liam’s thighs, his cock, big and hard against his stomach, his hand wrapped around himself, stroking languidly, his balls, his hole.

Liam says, “You’re not going to make me do all the work, are you?” His hand slides down from his cock. His long fingers touch at the inside of his thigh before slipping below his balls to rub dry over his hole. He pushes his hips into it, just a little.

Harry drags in a deep breath and his lungs rattle around in his chest like loose change. He scrubs his hand through his hair, straightening up to look over the camera at Liam biting his lip, his fingers still circling his rim. He says, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”  

And he can't seem to get to the bed fast enough, tripping over his feet in his haste, unable to look away from Liam's hands, his slack mouth, the flush on his chest and neck, his arm loosely flexed at he touches himself.

He kisses Liam as soon as he reaches him, bending and pulling him up and in by a firm grip on his short hair at back of his head, dragging him off his elbow and into Harry’s body instead, their bare chests coming into contact from how Harry’s arched towards him. Liam makes a noise and cups Harry’s jaw with his free hand, his fingers smoothing down the hard line of bone, his skin, before they dig in, tugging Harry further into him as he opens his mouth up into their kiss.

Liam’s mouth feels hot against Harry, his skin warm under Harry’s hands, against Harry’s chest and shoulders and arms, and it boils up white hot low in his stomach, igniting along his spine, climbing. Harry opens his mouth more desperately, touching Liam’s tongue with his, pulling him in urgently by his face. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do if he gets any more heated, doesn’t know how he’s going to stand it.

Liam makes a noise into him, only moaning from the rough pull of Harry’s hand in his hair, his jaw that’s got to be sore opening further to take what Harry’s giving him. Harry leans into Liam until he’s falling back against the sheets, spreading his legs so that Harry can fit between them. He follows Liam down until his elbows are on either side of Liam’s shoulders, pressed to him completely, heavy and unrelenting — their chests and stomachs, their hips, their cocks slick against one another, their thighs interlocked. Liam groans into Harry’s mouth at the contact, rolling his hips up into Harry’s and Harry mirrors him, moaning in return from feeling Liam so hot and huge, insistent at his hip.

Liam raises his knees and brackets Harry's thighs between them, sliding one leg behind Harry's knee, hooking his ankle, and pulling until Harry's thrusting against him lower — until Harry’s cock’s sliding down the crack of Liam's arse.

Harry moans, no longer able to kiss Liam, breaking away to pant next to Liam’s lips, leave his mouth open against Liam’s cheek, his chin, his throat.

"Yeah," Liam says, gasping, the word cracking apart. "Yeah, like that," he says as Harry slides more firmly against him and swears into his shoulder.

It's a difficult, trying struggle to pull away, but Harry manages to peel back, their skin sticking together briefly from their sweat, pushing his hair off his forehead where it's growing matted, his pulse hammering again as his feet hit the floor once more and he fumbles at the side table next to the bed frame, where he'd left lube and a strip of condoms out. He tears one off his with teeth as he uncaps the bottle to get his fingers slick, and hears the sheets rustling. He glances over his shoulder to find Liam further back on the bed, his legs no longer hanging off the end but stretched flat all the way out.

He tosses the condom down, aiming for the bed and smacking Liam in the shoulder with it instead. Liam looks back at him at the contact, grinning, his teeth showing, a small dimple high up on his cheek appearing, but it seems like it's hard for him to keep track of the smile, his concentration slipping and his swollen red mouth willing to fall open instead, his face flushed and his eyes dark. He's stroking himself again in Harry's absence and Harry makes an admonishing noise at him while he smears the lube between his fingers to warm it up.

He arranges himself in front of Liam again, at the foot of the bed with his back to the camera, and says, "That eager, are we? Can't wait for me to get you wet, can you?"

Liam only moans, tilting his head back, and thrusts up wantonly into his own open palm. "If you take any longer going about it, I'm going to finish before you've gotten started," he says, his voice remarkably unsteady, too low to even out.

Harry doesn't hesitate to press his fingers against Liam, tracing his rim so that Liam turns his face into the sheets, biting his lip as Harry finally pushes in. Liam feels tight around his finger immediately, and Liam pushes his hips up into it, urging Harry on further, widening his legs, his knees bent up on the bed.

It's not long until Harry's stretching Liam out on two fingers, his noise growing louder — drawn out, his face growing more flushed, especially when Harry brushes against his prostate. Harry wishes like mad that he was still holding the camera in his hand, still had it trained right on Liam, he doesn't want to miss Liam’s face like this — even if the way he's kneeling beside Liam on the bed assures there'll at least be a nice, clear shot of Harry sliding a third slick finger into his arse, Liam's cock jumping, dripping precome onto his own stomach, Liam's hand clenching at Harry's shoulder and hair, his bicep over his tattoos. It'll surely pick up the desperate noise Liam makes, the grind of his hips as he tries to take Harry's fingers deeper.

Liam looks too good for Harry to not give in a little, and he fucks Liam with his fingers until his palm's rutting into Liam's balls and Liam can't seem to catch his breath at all, his chest hitching, keening, his grip tight in Harry's hair, scraping hard at his shoulder. It's nothing compared to the way that Liam feels as Harry stretches his fingers apart inside of him, unbearably hot and tight. Harry wonders if he could just come from this too, like Liam seems ready to, and he picks up the pace, thrusts into Liam more frantically, harder until all he can hear is the sound of their skin slapping together, wondering if he will.

Liam’s riding Harry’s fingers, one of his hands shaking as he slides it down his face, his voice shaking when he begs, "Harry, please."

Harry pushes his fingers into Liam as deep as he can before he slides them all the way out, and Liam makes a breathless noise, his legs folding into one another to cope with the loss.

Harry murmurs, “Like this, yeah?” and manuvers Liam until he’s sideways on the bed, arranging the both of them so that Liam’s whole body is visible for the camera, so that there’ll be a view of Liam’s face and hair, the sides of his shoulders, his long legs bent up around Harry.

He's barely managed to properly roll the condom on and slick himself up, kneeling between Liam’s open legs, before Liam's impatient and insistent, tugging him in with his calves around the backs of Harry's thighs, pushing his hips up, his hands and arms looped around Harry's neck, pulling him closer, saying, "Get on with it already," sounding like he’s nearly growling.

Harry kisses Liam to shush him, and then grips Liam suddenly by his thighs, spreading them apart as far as possible so that he gasps against Harry’s mouth. He hooks one of Liam’s legs over his shoulder as he lines his cock up and slides in.

Liam moans, loud and unabashed, and he's so fucking tight around Harry that Harry has to still himself, his lungs choking beneath his sternum, his necklaces suspended above Liam’s collarbones. He slows as he rolls his hips all the way in until he’s flush against Liam’s arse and thighs so that he doesn't come from the immediate tight heat alone.

He’s not sure if he’s giving Liam a moment to adjust or himself a moment to breathe as he holds himself up on one arm braced on the bed beside Liam’s shoulder, Liam’s knee nearly touching his own chest from the way his ankle’s tucked behind Harry’s head, his other leg held open and apart around Harry’s waist. Harry’s pulse is absolutely thudding in his ears, and he knows Liam’s is too — his mouth’s caught open, his eyebrows drawn together, his hands tangled up in Harry’s hair, flexing around his necklaces.

Liam tugs Harry, demanding, angling his hips up, tilting his head back against the sheets, arching his neck when Harry doesn’t move right away, and Harry takes the hint, pulling back before thrusting in again and again.

Liam’s leg falls into the bend of Harry’s elbow, and he leaves his other leg open around Harry’s hips, his heel pressing in above Harry’s arse. Harry straightens up a little so that he has more leverage — can push in harder, deeper until he’s fucking Liam properly like he’s been asking for, Liam’s hands twisting in his own hair like he can’t stand it, sound after sound releasing from Liam’s open mouth, loud in the room above the hiss of the sheets, above their skin smacking together, above Harry’s own helpless moans and his necklaces clinking.

Harry can’t stop touching, his fingers skimming over Liam’s thighs, the muscles contracting in his stomach, his thrumming chest. Liam keeps thrusting down to meet Harry when he thrusts in, and it makes Harry want to never have to stop, feeling like he could fuck Liam endlessly, makes him pray that he can watch this again and again, Liam’s legs open as wide as he can handle, his back arched, his hair curling against his forehead, his face so broken apart — makes him drive harder into Liam thinking about seeing this played back and remembering acutely how tight and hot Liam is around him now.

He bends closer, pressing Liam’s leg down to his chest again, and reaches for Liam’s mouth, kissing him sloppily through his groans, their breaths exchanging quick, humid and dense between them. He slides his mouth down Liam’s throat and rests his forehead against Liam’s sweaty shoulder as he fucks into him, slower and deliberate. Liam’s hands rub through Harry’s curls and then down his shoulders and back, scraping, when they’re within reach. The vibration of his moans are right up against Harry’s ears — especially loud when Liam says, “I’m so close,” his voice torn apart. “Harry,” he says, like a plea.

Harry bites his pec and then kisses up to his mouth, sliding all the way out, all the way in. “Yeah,” Harry promises. He kisses Liam’s mouth again, reaching with his hand to touch Liam’s jaw, the hair behind his ear. “You gonna come for me?” he says when he pulls away, still close enough to Liam’s face that their noses are nearly touching, looking into his darkened eyes.

Liam makes a noise as Harry rolls his hips, grinding, flush against Liam’s arse, his chest rising with a breath into Harry’s, looking right back into Harry’s face, his mouth unbearably red and swollen. He says, “Yeah,” affirming, his voice scratchy. “Gonna come from your cock.”

Harry can’t take it so he groans, biting Liam’s mouth, and then straightens up to look down at Liam before he pulls all the way out, leaning back onto his haunches, his heels digging into the underside of his arse, his cock slapping up impossibly hard and slick into his stomach. Liam makes a noise at the loss, his eyebrows twisting, breathing hard, staring at Harry like he can’t believe it, but Harry tugs at Liam’s hips, tries to turn him over onto his stomach before he becomes too upset, saying, “Come on,” feeling like he’s spitting the words out in his haste to slide back into Liam, resisting the urge to squeeze himself.

Liam takes the cue immediately, and it isn’t a long wait before he’s propped on his knees and elbows, his thighs trembling where they’re spread open, his shoulder-blades large and defined as he looks at Harry over them, his eyebrows still all tied up together. Harry bites his lip to contain the sound he makes as he pushes back into Liam, one of his hands pressing firmly between Liam’s shoulders so that they fall apart underneath his palm, Liam’s head bending to touch the rumpled saturated sheets, moaning at the sensation, the shaded lines of his faux hawk at the back of his head looking tousled and mussed.

Harry holds Liam’s hip with his free hand as he thrusts into him over and over, fierce and unforgiving, their skin slapping together once more, Liam’s breathing seeming twice as disjointed, twice as loud, him feeling just as tight and hot.

It’s hardly any time at all before Liam’s noises keep catching in his throat, and he’s gasping Harry’s name like he’s begging, saying, “Please, I’m so —,” his words splitting off like he can’t get enough breath to finish them.

It makes Harry fuck him relentlessly, feeling Liam’s skin under his hand tremendously warm and sweaty, using his strong back as leverage, watching the stretch of his shoulders against the mattress, watching Liam pulling at his own hair, his mouth moving against the skin of his forearm and his tattoos curling there, his eyelashes fluttering, his hips pushing back eagerly still to meet Harry.

Harry can’t breathe either — his chest gridlocked so tight with heat, with the feeling of Liam around his cock, his spine burning up bright and hot, and it gets worse when Liam reaches between his legs to stroke himself and his mouth opens soundlessly at the contact, his eyes rolling up in his head. He makes a noise like a sob, his arm flexing, moving fast and quick, his bicep bulging, and then he comes, groaning loudly, rubbing his forehead in the sheets, his other hand fisted in his hair, his knuckles white.

He’s too tight, and Harry thrusts helplessly into him, Liam grunting in response, before Harry presses his hand down harder between Liam’s shoulders, hearing him moan weakly, feeling him give, and Harry comes too, his other hand clenching at Liam’s ribs and waist, rolling his hips into Liam, his eyes watering, his necklaces hanging above Liam’s back, his hair falling around his face, unable to do anything except for make a loud breathless noise, shuddering through it.

 

*

 

Liam’s collapsed onto the bed on his back right where Harry had left him by the time Harry’s tossed the condom in the bin in his attached loo, his legs shaking, having had to lean up against the sink counter for support just to roll it off, and returned to the bedroom. Harry flops down next to him in a huff, his throat sore and dry.

He rests his palms on his own chest, tapping his fingers lazily, and turns his head to look at Liam, who's got his eyes closed, his head pillowed in his arms crossed behind his head, his chest still blotched and red, still expanding quickly. The sun’s splattering over his relaxed feet and legs, reaching all the way to his thighs, and Harry looks away, looks up at the high ceiling arched above them instead. He slides his hands down his stomach and then drops them onto the sheets, his pulse still beating wildly, the recall of Liam around him, the noise Liam made when he came too fresh, making it difficult to breathe again. Harry flings his forearm over his eyes and says, “It’s still on.”

Liam makes a raspy, unimpressed noise from next to him, so Harry says, “Liam.” And then, “You have to do it.”

Liam makes another noise, though it sounds more like an exertion as the sheets rustle before Harry feels the weight of Liam against his chest, his head tucked into Harry’s shoulder and throat, his nose right underneath Harry’s jaw and chin, his legs splayed over Harry’s, his arm winding around his waist. “It’ll run out eventually, Hazza, won’t it,” he says into Harry’s neck.

Harry lets the arm he had over his eyes drop down to curl around Liam’s shoulders, rubbing soothingly with an open palm along Liam’s arm and back. He thinks there’s probably a great view of Liam’s muscular back and arse and legs that’re facing the camera being recorded now.

“Suppose so,” he says, unable to find a reason to get up, exhaustion heavy and taunting behind his eyelids, Liam warm and solid against him.

Liam’s hand comes up to cover his mouth, and he says, his words slurring, sounding sleepy and out of focus, “Then be quiet, won’t you. Some of us just had a long day at the office, put in a few hard hours of work.”

“Yes,” Harry says, agreeing, talking into Liam’s warm, slightly sweaty palm, tasting a bit of his skin and salt. “ _Very_ hard.” He shuts his eyes.


End file.
